"Yes, I'm fine," I say through gritted teeth. "And Mia is here."

"No, she's probably at school by now. She spent the night at a friend's. Sophia. No, Sarah."

"Sammy?" I offer.

"Yes, that's it," she says, leaping onto the name with confidence. "Sammy Lareau."

"Mom, Sammy is a guy. And he's my age." I rub the heel of my hand in my eyes.

A strangled noise emerges from the other end of the phone. "There must be more than one Sammy," she says. "She's been spending the night over there since the beginning of the year and-"

"Mom, no, trust me," I say. Which in a sentence sums up the exact problem. It's not that she doesn't, but she's so busy protecting me from myself and everyone else that she doesn't see or hear me. And how can I blame her for that?

"I don't ... Mia is there? Can I speak with her?" She's still not sure I know what I'm talking about. Then again, my version of reality hasn't always been so unassailable.

"She's in the shower right now. She heard you guys talking last night about bringing her here. She just decided to take matters into her own hands." And probably severely pissed off Liza, who would need their shared car for classes this afternoon.

"Damnit," my mom says quietly, startling me. It's rare to hear my mother lose her temper or, for that matter, swear.

"I told her she can stay for the day, but she has to be back in time for school tomorrow."

"And you'll come with her?" my mom asks, hope lifting her voice.

My temper explodes, sending a rush of adrenaline through me.

"I just told you that your youngest daughter is not where you thought she was and probably hasn't been lots of times in the past, and you're asking about me?" I demand. "No wonder Mia's so angry with you guys. She thinks you don't care, that she doesn't exist to you. I'm beginning to think she's right."

"Amanda, we are doing the best we can with all of this," she says tightly. "And I don't think you have the right to judge us."

"So sorry to have inconvenienced you by surviving," I mutter, the words out before I can stop them.

She sucks in a breath. "You take that back, right now. The day we learned you were still alive was the best day in my life, followed only by the days you girls were born. But you don't know," she says, her voice shaking. "You have no idea what it was like to see you ... after. You were so broken. It was like that man"-the hatred in her tone vibrates over the connection-"had taken our little girl and left us with this wounded, damaged creature that shook whenever anyone came close."

I shut my eyes, able to imagine it all too vividly. Sometimes it feels like those first days out of the basement just happened, like the wound on my arm is still healing and my teeth are still sharp, jagged peaks or blank spaces in my mouth.

"And you didn't deserve it; you were such a good girl-" Her voice breaks on a half-repressed sob.

I wince, hearing her refer to me in the past tense. But to some extent, that's accurate. The daughter they lost, the Amanda I was, no longer exists. "Mom, I'm sorry, I-"

"Are we making mistakes? I'm sure," she says. "But we're trying. We are doing everything we can to make you healthy and whole again."

Frustration wells in me again. "Yes, but that's not your job. I'm not fifteen anymore. Or even eighteen. I'm twenty, and I have to find my own way."

"If this is about him, Chase Henry, because of what he's saying to you-"

"No, it's not about him," I say. "It's about me. I'm doing this because I want to, because I need to. And I need you to let me, okay?"

"But it's a risk that you-"

"I like him. I ... want him," I say in a voice barely above a whisper, squirming with discomfort but determined all the same. The confession tears something loose in me, a last restraint breaking free. "And I'm glad."

This is not something we talk about at home. But my mother knows what I mean. She's the one who sat with me through all the invasive tests and exams, who cried with relief with me when the doctors confirmed that I would heal, I would have children if I wanted them, and I was not-for the last and final time, thank you, merciful God-pregnant.

But none of those results spoke to my ability-or lack thereof-to form an emotional and romantic attachment to another human being. There wasn't an exam for that, nothing except living, waiting, and seeing.

"I know who he is and who he's not," I add, because I know she's wondering if my poor deluded brain has cooked up a fantasy about Chase Henry, the poster version, come to life.

"Oh, Amanda," my mom says in a soft voice with a pained sigh, "I want this for you, you know I do, but with him, this man?" She emphasizes the word, as if wanting to make the four years between Chase and me an uncrossable chasm, rather than a leap from one stone to the next. "You don't really know him. He's handsome, yes, but-"

"He's more than that," I say sharply. Even in the short time I've been around Chase, I've seen how others treat him like he's nothing more than the symmetry in his face, bone structure that looks good on camera. The worst part is, I'm pretty sure some part of him believes them. I think that's why he's so pleased when he does something right, versus just staying quiet and looking pretty.

Someone, somewhere along the way, convinced him that he wasn't good enough, wasn't worth consideration just being who he is. And that sucks. Because he is.

"And as for knowing him well enough, yeah, you're probably right," I say with a shrug. "But I'm not sure it's possible for me to trust the way you mean, so completely, no matter how well I know someone. I don't think that's part of who I am anymore."

She makes a small, distressed sound.

It hurts me to hear it even as it makes the blood rush to my head in fury. "Mom, you can't unbreak me. I wish you could," I say, my jaw tight with frustration. "But you can't; the damage is done." When I look down, a dark circle appears on my jeans and then another. I lift my hand to my face, surprised to find I'm crying.

"So now I have to figure out how to navigate the new me, cracks and all." I wipe my cheeks with the back of my sleeve. "And if it blows up in my face, then it does. That's not the important part. What I'm trying to get you to see is that I want to try. That's the point." After so many years of hiding, I want something-who cares who or what it is. It should be recognizable as progress, even if she doesn't agree.

She's quiet for a long moment, to the point that I pull the phone from my ear to make sure the call hasn't ended.

"All right, Amanda," she says distantly. "You have to do what you think is best for you."

Even if it's a huge, messy mistake is what she's very carefully not saying. I hear it just the same.

"Just, please, be careful. I don't think I can see you hurting like that again." She sounds so wounded, so bereft, it's all I can do to keep from taking back everything I've just said, everything I've fought for.

"I will, I promise," I make myself say, my voice croaky with tears and effort.

"I'll talk with Mia when she gets home tomorrow. Thank you for letting us know she's safe," my mom says with that chilly formality usually reserved for strangers.

The polite distance growing between us in this call makes my heart hurt, but maybe it's necessary. Maybe that's what's needed to break the connection to the past, the one place we can never return to, no matter how hard everyone tries. None of us is the same and we never will be. Maybe it's time we acknowledge that, no matter how much it pains us.

"I love you, Mom," I say.

"Loveyoutoo." But she rushes the words together and hangs up before I can say good-bye, the click of disconnection sounding as resolute and permanent in my ear as any door slamming.

I lower my hand, phone clenched in my fingers, to my lap and sit still for a moment, feeling the surrealism of this instant. Mia is warbling in the shower, welcoming everyone to the cabaret, and out in the hallway, I hear the wobble and clatter of a loaded-down cart, either room service or housekeeping.

So here I am. In a hotel, next door to Chase Henry's room, not the Chase in my head but the real one, who's my friend ... and maybe more, if I can take it that far. And I think I just got my mom to listen to me for the first time in over two years.

I'm all in. And all on my own. It's a strangely isolating and liberating feeling. Before, I had multiple people watching and weighing my every move, helping me see the pitfalls and dangers and steering my steps.

Now it's just me. And I forgot how completely terrifying that could be.

22.

Chase The van feels emptier without Amanda. It is, obviously. It's just me, Emily, and Ron, our driver from yesterday.

But I guess what I mean is that for someone who has a small "presence," as the theater people say, meaning she's quiet and doesn't require being the center of attention, I feel her absence so much more than I expected to.

I've been away from her for, what, twenty minutes? But I miss that word or two murmured in my ear. The warmth of her leaning against me, and the trust that symbolizes. The calm suggestion that seems to make everything better, whether it's finding the local AA meeting or correcting my mini-golf stance. The glare when I've overstepped my bounds by being too protective of her or when I've laughed at something I shouldn't, like pretty much anything her sister Mia says.

I wouldn't have thought twice about anything like that in the past. Actually, I probably would have run screaming at the first hint of sentimentality. There were girls who tried, in a whole variety of ways. Pretending not to care so I'd pay more attention, flirting with Eric or pretty much anyone else in the bar to try for a jealous reaction, or caring so much that I'd never have cause for complaint, like they could wear me down into feeling something I didn't.

I sound like a privileged asshole, but the truth is, it never felt like anything that was happening to me, the real me. Was it flattering? Hell, yes. Did I take them up on it? No question. It felt good to be wanted. At least, at first.

But once I got sober, or made a real effort toward it for the first time, I saw the situation more clearly. Would they have been so interested (or fake disinterested) in me if we'd found ourselves in Bart's Tavern in Tillman with sticky beer-soaked floors and peanut shells everywhere instead of some NoHo club with thumping bass and an elevated VIP platform? Not that I planned to be in a bar again anytime soon, either way.

But the answer was no: they wanted Chase Henry, and the real me was always either too much or not enough.

But this is different. Amanda is different. For whatever reason she looks at me and somehow sees me-messed up, struggling, recovering me-as worthy. And that just makes me want to prove her right.

"-didn't you think?" Emily asks, breaking into my thoughts. She's twisted around to face me, leaning into my space with earnestness. "It was so corny. All those falling-down fairy tale characters. Like I'm pretty sure they only had six Dwarves." She laughs.

It takes me a second to figure out what she's talking about. The miniature golf course from this morning. She obviously thought it fell short and is looking at me eagerly for agreement.

But I'm going to disappoint her. "I thought it was great. We thought it was great," I amend carefully. I don't want to hurt her feelings, but ... no. "Thank you again for setting it up."

Her face falls. "Oh." Then she tries to rally, giving me a smile that's strained around the edges. "You're welcome, of course. Happy to help," she says. "I mean, it's my job." She swivels quickly in her seat to face forward.

"It's not your job," I say, trying to smooth things over without raising her hopes. "It was a favor, and I really do appreciate it."

Her shoulder rises and falls in a non-response response. "Sure."

Ron catches my gaze in the mirror and shakes his head with a smile and an old-man snort, which Emily doesn't notice as she's clicking madly away at her phone. Pretending she's responding to a text, if I had to guess.

Ron gets it. He understands. It's like she's knocking on a door, but I'm already gone.

The realization hits with a force that straightens me in my seat. The way I'm thinking about Amanda is ... intense. Way more than it should be for someone I just met, and someone who will be going home tomorrow.

Tomorrow, holy shit. I can't decide which is more unsettling: the thought of finishing out the week here with Amanda sixty miles away-distant but not out of reach-or the pang that idea sends through me.

My hands are shaking and sweaty suddenly. I rub my palms against my jeans.

I don't want her to go.

But I'm not sure I'm ready for anything else, either. I mean, she's made it clear what she does and does not want from me, and it's nothing beyond these few days. And why would it be? We haven't even slept together, for God's sake. And we might not. Not that that's everything, but it's something.

And hell, I'm eleven months sober, which is my longest stretch ever. I'm on the path to not screwing up, to finally getting my life and my career back together, and one of the long-held tenets of recovery is that you should avoid getting involved with someone, like the kind of involved that messes with your emotions, for at least a year. If it ends badly, you might find yourself retreating to damaging but comforting habits in a weak moment. Which would pretty much destroy everything I've worked so hard to rebuild.

But when it comes to keeping my emotions out of anything to do with Amanda, it might be too late to hit the brakes.

"Chase, are you okay?" Emily asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I glance up to find her studying me with a puzzled frown. I must look as fucking confused as I feel.

I resist the urge to snarl at her. "Yeah, why?" I ask as calmly as I can instead.

"Um, we're here?" Emily gestures toward the window. And she's right: the van has stopped at the security barricade. I can see my trailer in the distance.

"Oh, right, sorry." I force a smile. "Just focused on the scene today." A convenient excuse, but it would be better if that were actually the case. Yet another reason I need to lock this down and regain my focus.

Emily climbs out and waits outside my door to escort me.

Ron gives me a salute and a nod as I slide out of the van.

Despite my worries about coordinating everything this morning and my lapse of attention for however long in the van, I'm still early enough for Emily to lead me to my trailer first.

Her sudden stop and gasp are my first indications that something's wrong.

I tense, glancing around, expecting ... I'm not sure what. But I don't see any obvious threat. At first.

"Oh my God." Her hand covering her mouth, Emily races the final feet to my trailer steps and then stops to stare, which helps narrow down the cause for her reaction.

From a distance, it looks like a bunch of random scratches, but the closer I get, the pattern becomes more distinct.

On the door to my trailer, someone has scraped the word "no" over and over again in varying sizes. And then, in the dead center of the door, AMANDA is spelled out in uneven letters with a thick scratch through it. The gouge is deep enough that the metal is dented.

Elise. It has to be. She's following up on her threats rumor, making her own evidence.

I feel a flash of irritation that she's taken it this far and then a greater surge of relief that Amanda isn't here to see it.

"I have to call Security," Emily says, fumbling for the walkie-talkie on her belt. "Don't go in."

"It's not necessary," I say quickly. The last thing I need is for Security to decide the police should be involved. I step around Emily and tug at the door, confirming it's still locked. "I don't think anyone made it inside."

But Emily frowns at me and continues her call over the walkie-talkie for Leon, who is apparently the security coordinator.

It doesn't take long for Leon to appear. A bulky, balding guy in a black golf shirt and black pants, he radiates ex-cop in his eyes and the way he holds himself.

He takes a few pictures of the door and checks around the outside of the trailer, bending to look beneath. Then he gets the key from Emily, who's hovering nearby, and confirms that the inside seems undisturbed.

"Anybody got something against you?" he asks, eyeing me in a way that makes me feel guiltier than I already am.

I rub the back of my neck. "Where do you want to start? Alphabetical or by date?"

He chuckles, but I was being serious. I've been through this before. Sera, my stalker, started this way, with weird little unrelated incidents that built to her breaking into my condo.

"We had some other minor vandalism on set last night, a break-in and a small fire in one of the other trailers," he says.